Our Day In Hell Part 6 – A Come To Jesus Talk

India has always attended public school with the only exception being when she was away for therapy.  We’d always wanted to give her the opportunity to learn as much as she was capable of and have lots of social interaction with other children.  We’ve experienced many highs and almost as many lows with the New Mexico school system,  fften finding ourselves having to deal with the red tape and battling the mind-numbing bureaucracy and its tenured minions.  At the same time, we’d encourage and if possible reward the positive aspects of the system.  This was a full time job, not for the faint of heart. There was an event that will haunt me for the rest of my life.  It was one of the few times in my life that I actually felt violent and wanted to inflict harm on another human being.

We placed India in an old and relatively small elementary school in the town of Mesilla, New Mexico.  The surroundings were beautiful, with thousands of Pecan trees surrounding the campus and the historic Rio Grande River flowing just west of the school.  A couple of minutes to the north was the jail where Billy the Kid was kept after he was caught for the last time.

At first all seemed fine—it took some adjustment for India but that was to be expected.  But after awhile, we noticed India becoming agitated and then depressed.  We couldn’t figure out what the hell was going on.  We didn’t necessarily suspect the school was the root of the problem but we checked anyway, several times.  We’d come down to the school to see how our daughter was doing.  Every time we paid a visit, India would be out in the playground with other children or in the classroom working on a project with at least one other kid.  It couldn’t be the school.  We wondered if her depression came from a new realization of her physical condition, a chemical imbalance, or something else that we couldn’t see.

The school year finally came to an end, summer was upon us, and India was back to her old happy self.  We were relieved and went on with life and had a great summer.  We spent several weeks at the beach in San Diego, went to the mountains in Colorado, and watched more movies than I care to count.  But as summers do, this one came to an end.  It was time to brave the long lines at the local store and stock up on the new semester’s school supplies.

As we were shopping for the new school year, we happened to run into the teacher’s aide from the previous year.  We greeted each other and had the usual small talk; how was your summer, are you excited about the new year, when are you going to get your teaching certificate, etc.  I noticed that she looked a bit nervous as she was talking to us but I didn’t pay much attention to it.  To our surprise though, she dropped the bomb of all bombs on us very abruptly.  This young assistant almost broke down and cried, right in the middle of the store when she said, “Listen, I have to tell you something.”

She went on to tell us that she couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t tell us what had happened the semester before with India.  She said that she’d wanted to tell us during the school year but she was too afraid.  She told us in detail how India’s teacher would put her in the corner of the classroom all day in her wheelchair, the brake on so India couldn’t wheel herself back to the children.  India would have to sit there as she watched the other children do art andmusic, have snack time, and socialize.  My little girl was forced to just sit here and watch. She was not attended to or allowed to interact.  When it came time for recess, she would only be taken out into the playground part of the time.  When she was taken outside, she was placed against the wall by the door and left yet again all by herself to just watch the other children enjoy their outside time.  My daughter had been neglected and abused by her teacher and the administration of the school did nothing.  And as when India experienced the painful sticker embedded deep in her skin but couldn’t tell us, she again was in a painful situation, helpless and unable to let us know what was going on.

The aid went on to tell my wife and I that every time the teacher would  see us coming, she’d quickly make sure that India was put with a group of children and made it look like she was included in whatever project they were working on.  If it was recess time when we’d arrive, the teacher would roll India’s chair into the middle of the playground and pretend to be play with her. 

I stood there in the middle of the store, staring at this young lady as she gave us intimate details of the neglect and abuse inflicted on my daughter.  By this point, she had tears running down her cheeks.  I don’t know how Veruca felt but I was a moment away from running out of the store, tracking down this teacher and beating her to death.  I was a ball of rage, my heart was pounding, my adrenaline was pumping, and my eyes were full of tears. 

To this day, I can’t tell you what the fuck this teacher was thinking or why she did what she did; I can only assume.  It’s my assumption that she had little empathy, no compassion, and was too lazy to do her job.  I don’t want to believe that she was just sadistic.  Either way, she had and has no business being a teacher of our children, no way.

As we drove home, we didn’t say a word.  Our heads were spinning from the news we’d just received.  The only thing I can possibly compare this to is most likely how a parent feels when they find out that their child has been raped.  How the hell could somebody do this to a helpless child, especially an educator and the trusted administration?

That very day, we filled out the paperwork to transfer our daughter to a newer school on the opposite side of town.  We made some inquiries to ensure that the previous year’s abusive teacher hadn’t transferred to this new school and scheduled a meeting with the new teacher, her aid, the entire administration, and the heads of the school district.

On the day of the meeting, I felt calm and focused as I put on my best suit and tie, placed my recording device and legal pads in my brief case, and headed out to have a “come to Jesus” moment with the Las Cruces public school system.  By this time in my career, I was very well known in the community and had acquired quite a bit of wealth and power.  As a matter of fact, the new school was surrounded by my development projects and the entire area was plastered with my real estate signs.

We convened the meeting at the new school’s conference room. Every seat was taken and a few people were forced to stand.  Veruca and I sat there as we listened to the administrators give us their canned and legally sanitized speech about the benefits of this school and how India would thrive here.  It was basically what the previous school had said to us.  I really wasn’t listening, just looking at the administrator’s lips while they were moving, as she mechanically blurted out words she’d clearly used a thousand times before.  I waited intentionally until the administrator was reaching the climax of her memorized dialogue.  Then I interrupted abruptly.

“Ma’am, I think it’s time for me to convey something very important to you and the rest of the people in this room.  I also expect every person here to convey what I’m about to say to others in the school district.  My daughter was neglected and abused last year at her previous school.”

I went on to give every possible detail and the impact it had on our daughter and the rest of the family.  Every eye in the room was fixed on me, unblinking. They were caught completely off guard.  I could sense that the teachers and therapists in the room were horrified and in disbelief at what they were hearing.  I knew for sure that the administrators were getting that terrible sinking feeling as I took the time to glare at each and every one of them while I was talking.

After I described what had happened, I went into attack mode.  I started my next sentence with “My name is Nick Rank,” (everybody knew this but it was for effect) “and I need to make sure that each and every one of you know that if something even remotely like what happened at last year’s school happens here, I’ll not only sue the school district but also the teacher, assistant, and administrators individually.  My family and I have many resources and will put every last penny into making your lives a living hell if you don’t do your job and look out for my daughters’ best interests.  I will hire a public relations firm with the directive to ensure every media outlet possible in the western United States runs the story of what’s happened.”

'Before I knew it was happening, I had tears flowing down my face as I said to the room, “My children are my life and India is unable to fend for herself, she is exposed and helpless.  She didn’t ask to be the way she is.  This little girl wants to play, interact, have friends, and learn.  Mentally, she’s just fine so when she’s excluded and kept in a corner six hours a day, she processes it just like any other kid would, she just cant express her sadness verbally.  Please don’t do this to my baby again, she doesn’t deserve it, she’s not a monster.”

I looked up to see every person in the room staring at me; some had tears rolling down their cheeks.  The head of Special Ed said in a very quiet voice, “This will never happen again, I assure you.”  Then India’s new teacher, who was one of the people who was crying, said that she would look out for my daughter, love and include her in everything.  She said it sincerely and it came from her heart, I could feel it.  She is still a friend to this day, a beautiful person who kept her word and gave India a wonderful school experience over the next year.

As a final note to this chapter, I have to say that I can’t begin to imagine what I would have done in this situation if I hadn’t had the resources, contacts, and power that I did.  If I were a fry cook or had some other minimum wage job with no resources and a disabled child who was being neglected by the school system, we would have been screwed.  I see it happen all the time.  The system chews up and spits out families all the time.

Our Day In Hell Part 5 - Bonk

It seemed like every day we faced new challenges we never could have expected, both big and small.  One that really stuck with me was when we decided to take India on a walk.  We put her in her stroller and set off towards the local park.  Just after we headed out, India started whimpering, then crying, then screaming.  To save our lives, we couldn’t figure out what was wrong.  We re-positioned her, held her, tried to feed her, adjusted her straps and finally gave up our walk and went home.  When we arrived back at the house, we undressed India so we could change her diaper and to our horror found a sharp sticker from some sort of weed embedded deep into the skin of her buttock.  Somehow this damn sticker found its way into the stroller and ended up penetrating her delicate skin. 

Although my little girl was old enough to communicate verbally, she couldn’t because of her Cerebral Palsy.  The only thing she could do was cry in the hopes we’d figure out what was wrong.  This was very rough for me because I was unable to understand what she was trying to tell us. It was especially hard because I felt so sorry for the frustration my little girl must have felt at not being able to communicate. 

Veruca and I pushed on, getting up every morning, putting on our shoes, taking that first step and doing the best we could.  Fortunately, after a couple of years my business began to take off.  I started to push Veruca to up the amount of therapy for India.  I truly believed that the more therapy our daughter could participate in the better; and since we didn’t know which therapy was beneficial and which one wasn’t, we just decided to do all of them in unprecedented amounts.  We began to travel around the United States and Canada for services.  I would rely on Veruca to find the services and I’d find a way to pay for them.  Our daughter did begin to progress as a result of the therapies, but I still wish I knew then what I know now. I wish I’d known that simple lifestyle changes with good routines and plenty of activities at home truly had the potential to help India’s progress and have a lasting effect, rather than twenty different types of therapies away from home. I didn’t know this then—I didn’t know how to create a stable home and beneficial routines, or how to encourage India to be independent—I thought I’d get all the answers from therapies. They did help somewhat though: India began to gain muscle tone and to sit with her legs crossed for short periods of time unaided, and she developed some strength.  She started eating better and clearly became happier.

We were ecstatic about these improvements; we thought she was beating the odds in a huge way.  So over the next nine years, we put absolutely everything we could into India’s care and rehabilitation.  *The list is long and reached costs of up to $250,000 per year.  If we had the money, we’d pay cash, otherwise we’d max out our credit cards and use a second mortgage on our home to cover the expenses.  The intensive regiment of interventions and therapies kept India, Veruca, and at times our second daughter on the road for the better part of each year, including almost 12 consecutive months in Canada.

While all of this traveling was taking place, I also had to run my company, which was booming.  I often had to do this from wherever India was, remotely.  I was constantly in an airport, hotel, hospital, restaurant, or intervention facility with my laptop and cell phone, working away.  There was even a time where India was yet again on life support and I was forced to work while sitting by her side, but more about that later.

Almost two years after India was born, we had another little girl, Harriet.  As Harriet grew, she became best friends with India.  Harriett didn’t see anything wrong with her sister; she treated her like any other kid.  This included screwing with her big sister.  Harriett could execute guerrilla warfare on India, attack and run.  Of course India couldn’t pursue Harriett, which made the game all the more fun for India’s little sister.  There was one day that Harriett’s guerrilla warfare came to an end and I’m happy to say that I was fortunate enough to witness it.

Harriett must have been about 4 years old and had gotten her hands on a long tube from a roll of gift-wrapping paper.  She was running in big circles around the living room, whacking India’s head with the tube every time she passed her.  India was furious, yelling profanities in her own way after every whack.  What I didn’t notice at the time was that India was intently watching her sister’s every move, waiting to strike.  The moment finally came during one of her sister’s whacking raids.  India had patiently waited for her sister to become complacent, to get too close.  Harriett came in for another attack on her sister, and as she approached India, raising the long cardboard and preparing to drop the bonker on India’s cranium, India shot out her one good arm, grabbing Harriett’s hair.  Before I knew it, India was yanking her sister’s head back and forth.  Harriett was shrieking at the top of her lungs, India’s eyes were wide open, a smile from ear to ear as she performed her well earned payback.  I’d never seen India look so satisfied ever in her life. She was in control.  Harriett was screaming at an octave high enough to shatter glass, India was laughing at the top of her lungs, the dog was howling, the cats had run for cover, and there I stood, sipping a cup of coffee watching the mayhem in my living room, happy as a father can be.  My daughters were interacting just like other siblings do around the world, for the first time.

India was empowered after the whacking event, and she had much more confidence, not to mention respect from her little sister.  India began to tease Harriett as often as she could.  One of her favorite things to do that just drove her sister crazy was to mimic Harriett when she was talking to her mother.  You see India at the time really couldn’t talk.  She could however open and close her mouth at whatever speed she wanted.  Whenever her sister was talking to her mother and her mother’s back was to India, India would open and close her mouth at the same rate her sister would while speaking.  This would infuriate Harriett, she would turn bright red and yell, “Stop it, India!”  When the girls’ mother would turn around to look at India, India would have stopped mimicking her sister and would give her mother an innocent look.  India couldn’t ever keep the innocent look on her face though, she would curl up and giggle in a beautiful high-pitched laugh from deep inside her; it was heartwarming. 

As India became stronger and gained more control over her body, she learned to maneuver her manual wheelchair by herself.  She would wheel that thing all over the house using her one good arm.  This was a new sense of freedom for India.  The first time that India actually was able to move the wheelchair from one part of the house to another was an evening to remember.  Veruca and I were in the kitchen talking as dinner was being prepared.  We had put India in her wheelchair back in her room.  Until that point, India could only rotate her chair in circles.  Veruca and I were deep in conversation when we heard India yelling “eewww, no Gary no, eewww,” followed by a loud squeaky laugh.  As we spun around to see what was happening, we saw India in her chair, parked just outside the bathroom, watching the dog drink out of the toilet.  India had figured out how to wheel her chair out of her room, down the hall, and position herself in front of the bathroom door so that she could watch the family dog have a refreshing drink of toilet water!  India made a point of telling the story of her dog drinking toilet water as best she could to anybody who’d listen for many months to come.  It made her laugh like a loon each and every time she told her story.

Our Day in Hell Part 4 "Feed Me".

Our exit from the hospital came with a lot of conflicting information.  Some doctors told us that India would be just fine and would have no serious residual issues.  Other doctors told us she might be terribly damaged and might not survive long.  As parents, we gravitated towards the positive prognosis.  We couldn’t imagine the other, brain damage.

Home was different when we arrived.  Actually, home wasn’t different, we were different. We’d all been brutally traumatized, and in India’s case, physically. We settled in as best we could but it was hard.  Despite the love and help from family and friends, we couldn’t really get our bearings and  it quickly became clear that India had substantial problems.  This was terrible for me to accept.  I’d look for any sign of normalcy but these became fewer and fewer. 

I can remember sitting with India, looking at her little hand that was already retracting into a fist, a symptom of Cerebral Palsy.  Her tiny body was clearly damaged.  There was no muscle tone and she was like a ragdoll.   She cried all the time, constantly.  We were stressed, damaged, terrified of seizures, and couldn’t sleep.  In addition, I had to jump back into my new career and find a way to come up with unimaginable amounts of money for insurance deductibles, non-covered expenses, living expenses, future expenses and God knows what else.  It was an impossible time.  If my memory serves me correctly, we quickly found ourselves $130,000 in the hole and I was bringing in a meager $19,000 per year.

Every step of every day was difficult.  India would choke, she’d scream, she fell further and further behind in every imaginable way.  She’d often become ill, get dehydrated and have to be hospitalized.  Our lives became unrecognizable.

As new issues with India unfolded, we did everything we could to counter them.  We began to research and learn about every possible intervention that might make so much as the smallest improvement in our child.  In all fairness, I’m giving myself a bit too much credit at this point.  During India’s first year of life, I was spending the majority of my time trying to earn enough money to cover the bills.  Veruca was incredible; she did everything she could for our baby.  I heavily relied on her to figure out what the hell we needed to do.

We were literally bombarded with ideas, therapies, medicines, equipment, and on and on and on.  The problem was that we had no real idea what was worthwhile and what was useless. We relied heavily on “professionals” for guidance but if I only knew then what I know now. 

One of the “professionals” who was influential to us at the time was a young physical therapist.  He seemed knowledgeable and level headed.  What I didn’t know was that he practiced an outdated version of physical therapy.  According to his version it wasn’t recommended to allow children to make certain movements unless they had reached the developmental milestone that normal children reach prior to making that movement.  Thus, a child would not be allowed to stand up unless they mastered independent sitting and so on.  I now understand how harmful and destructive this approach is, but back then I didn’t know any better.  This physical therapist’s influence on us, especially on Veruca, was horribly damaging to India.  The following paragraph highlights just one event that happened as a result of this misinformed professional disgrace. 

I was outside with India one day.  As I was holding her, she was pumping her legs as if she were walking.  I put India down on the ground in the standing position, supporting her arms.  India began to take one step after another.  It was amazing.  She walked the entire width of our yard.  I called to Veruca to tell her what was happening. My heart was pumping so hard I could feel each beat in my temples.  Veruca came outside, frowned, and told me to not allow India to walk because she wasn’t able to sit unaided yet.  I was shocked and confused.  Here was our little disabled girl walking!  India was doing what I knew was a good thing.  There could be nothing bad about this!  I argued with Veruca, I told her that it was common sense that we should allow India’s natural instincts to take their course right now!  Veruca insisted that she was correct and that I didn’t know what I was talking about.  Veruca dismissed all of my pleas for continuing to support India’s walking.  Every bone in my body told me to continue, but Veruca was the master of belittling others’ opinions and knowledge and did her utmost to make everyone wrong at all times.  She had opinions about everything one can imagine and she continuously forced her opinion on others.  Unfortunately, I was new in this marriage, didn’t know Veruca very well, and had no concept how to enforce a boundary, much less stand up to an aggressive spouse.  I gave in, I stopped helping India walk. I will regret this for the rest of my life.  The damage that was caused that day by stopping our daughter from walking can’t possibly be calculated. 

Over a year later, Veruca admitted that her opinion about India’s first steps came from the young physical therapist.  She acknowledged that this was a terrible thing to have said.  However, the time that had passed was just too long for India and when I put her to stand again, she wasn’t taking steps any more. 

I kept the soiled socks that India wore that day for years.  I kept them even though it hurt me to look at them.  She didn’t walk again for many years and when she did, it was never again like the first steps she had taken.  Her body had been too ravaged by that point.

We didn’t dare let India leave our sight.  We were terrified of her seizing or choking while in someone else’s care, so we were constantly monitoring her.  But after much persuading by concerned family and friends, we finally agreed to get some help.

Because of India’s disability and our low income, Veruca and I qualified for state sponsored “respite care.”  This meant that we could have somebody from a state qualified agency,trained in caretaking and emergency medical procedures, take care of India for little to nothing for about 20 hours a month. 

When our first respite date came, we were beyond nervous.  The thought of leaving India alone with somebody else was overwhelming.  Veruca and I decided that there was no way we could be far away from our daughter, at least not on this first respite visit.  So we decided to just walk around the block, which was as far as we could be from India.  The respite caretaker arrived, she was a very large rosy-cheeked lady who seemed nice enough and as if she knew what she was doing. We talked with her for about 30 minutes explaining everything she needed to know for the care of our daughter.  Then Veruca handed the caretaker a baby sling to carry India around the house.  Veruca asked her if she knew how to use it, the respite caretaker said yes, and she ushered us out the door.

We walked around the block several times, holding hands.  It was nice to get out.  The sun was setting, the temperature was nice and cool, and this alone time was just what we needed.  It was the first time in awhile that we’d been outside, just the two of us, and I felt almost human.  After about 30 minutes, we decided we’d been gone long enough.  I was feeling a sense of rejuvenation, like the dark cloud had been lifted and I could handle another day of this new life.  As we walked in our front door  that nice feeling evaporated instantaneously.

The first sign that something was wrong was that the respite caretaker was very red and her face was wet with sweat.  I stood there staring at her trying to figure out what the hell was going on.  Then I saw my daughter, or rather, I saw my daughter’s foot.  It was sticking up from the top of the sling.  The respite care provider had put my daughter into the sling upside down.  What I hadn’t realized was that I had been so shocked with what I was seeing that my hearing was literally muted; I was standing there dumbfounded.  As the volume of my surroundings elevated, the next shock hit me; I could hear my daughter’s muffled screams from the bottom of the sling. 

Veruca ran over and pulled India out of the sling and away from the respite caretaker.  India was discolored and sweaty from a lack of oxygen and the heat.  The caretaker was clearly flustered, became defensive, and blamed everything on the device rather than her lack of common sense.

Without saying a word to each other, Veruca and I both knew that we wanted this human train wreck out of our home and lives as quickly as possible.  Veruca rushed into our bedroom to get the checkbook, and came right back out with the check filled out plus a generous tip included.  I felt a massive sense of relief when my wife handed the woman her check so she could leave.  But to my surprise, she didn’t get up off the couch. She leaned back, put one leg over the other, and started watching TV!  Veruca and I stood there flabbergasted, almost as if we had been transported into an episode of The Twilight Zone.  Veruca finally got up the nerve to say, “Well, thanks for the help, I think you better go now.”  The respite caretaker looked at Veruca with astonishment and said, “You’re supposed to feed me. I’m hungry so you need to feed me before I go, it’s our agreement.”

You could have heard a pin drop in my living room. The caretaker sat there staring at Veruca, Veruca stood there trying to absorb what this woman just told her, and I found myself wanting to crawl under the coffee table, insert my thumb into my mouth, and curl up in the fetal position.

So there the three of us sat, Veruca on a hard wooden chair, me perched on another, while the caretaker lounged on our soft couch, slowly eating a hastily-put-together meal and watching TV. She was oblivious to our presence.  As I watched this oversized woman, all I could think about was Mr. Creosote from Monty Python’s movie “Meaning of Life”.  In this skit, Mr. Creosote eats so much he projectile vomits into a bucket and finally explodes.  As I sat there waiting for this lady to explode, I realized that it would be a very long time before either my wife or I could trust anybody again to take care of our little angel. This experience screwed any chance of us having alone time in the near future and that’s exactly what happened.

Holding Out Hope

My daughter has beaten all the odds throughout her 13 years on this planet.  She's a true champ, one of my best friends and my hero.     

Up until late 2007, early 2008, she progressed so much that she could walk, dance, stand and jump with just a little assistance.  This was due to intense interventions and therapy all throughout the United States and Canada.  In 2008 though, everything went wrong.  

India spiraled downhill before my eyes and the worst of it wasn't witnessing India's bitter disappointment as she tried in vein to make her body work.  The worst of it was the pain that ravaged her.

As a father, this is horrific to witness and the helplessness can't be properly described. Sometimes late at night, the pain gets so bad that India asks me to hold her on my chest as we are lying down.  She curls up in the fetal position while I rub her back and legs to relax her little body and hope to alleviate the pain. 

We’ve gone through a series of doctors, all of whom have good intentions.  But despite the best of intentions, some of the doctors have been very wrong.  In fact, several of the suggestions from Physicians could have caused India a lifetime of intense chronic pain and infection. 

Fortunately, I’ve been at this for 13 years now and am wise enough to know to question everything.  We did some research and found a world-renowned doctor in Summit, New Jersey who specializes in working with children with disabilities.

We recently made the trip from our home in New Mexico to New Jersey.  Our visit with this doctor was beyond belief.  For the first time in a very long time, I felt overwhelming hope and happiness. 

This new doctor was the first to not want to do intensely invasive surgery.  He explained in detail what the bleak outcomes would be if we allowed India to go under the knife and saw of the surgeons.  Keep in mind, the previous surgeons wanted to saw off the top of my daughter’s femurs and pack the leftover void with some sort of substance in the hope to keep the remaining femur from pushing its way through the muscle and skin; leaving bone exposed.  This new doctor talked about the infections and pain that would be caused from the plethora of screws and hardware that would have to be attached to India's bones. 

So he we sit, excitedly preparing and patiently waiting for September 27^th, the day of the new doctors outpatient procedures.  My little girl will have what’s called an Alcohol/Ethanol Chemoneurolysis to take away her chronic pain in her hips. This is procedure where the nerves that are causing my daughters pain will be treated with a solution that deadens them.  She will then have a Soft Tissue Lengthening to loosen up her hips/legs.  And finally, my baby-girl will receive a Transtympanic Neurectomy and Chorda Tympanotomy.  This procedure eliminates her excessive drooling.  India is absolutely beautiful and currently has 2 boyfriends.  I can clearly see her embarrassment when she drools in public so this procedure should really help her self esteem.


I’m feeling like I can see the light at the end of the tunnel right now.  I’ll let everybody know how it goes at the end of this month.


On a side note, I have to admit that we are incredibly fortunate to have good insurance.  Just the doctors fee for the Transtymapanic Neurectomy is $9,000.00, not including hospital fee's.  The entire bill will exceed $40,000.00.  I feel so sorry for those parents who don't have insurance.

The following are 3 of the 4 stories of what happened to my daughter that left her with Cerebral Palsy:

http://donniebrainard.blogspot.com/2010/04/our-day-in-hell-part-1.html

http://donniebrainard.blogspot.com/2010/04/picu-our-day-in-hell-part-2.html

http://donniebrainard.blogspot.com/2010/04/circle-of-friends-our-day-in-hell-part.html

India Walking On The Beach 2007

India Standing 2008

India Skiing 2009

Deadly Evening At The Tijuana Border Crossing

In 1988, I was in the NAVY in San Diego, California.  One weekend night, some friends and me decided to go down to Tijuana to party.  There were about 6 of us packed in a small economy car flying down the 5 freeway.  The traffic was pretty heavy but moving quickly. 

Not far before the Tijuana border crossing, I saw something ahead of us in the road moving from right to left.  At first, it looked like a dog, and then I realized it was a man running very fast, out of control, trying not to fall.  He was trying to stay upright; he was using his hands on the asphalt to keep from sliding face first across the road.

Just as we came upon him, he fell and slid on his belly, we ran over him.  There was a long silence in the car, then I said “We need to stop”, we just hit somebody.  The driver in the car was in disbelief and said that we hit a dog.  I just sat there stunned for a few moments then insisted that we pull into a parking lot.

We were at the border crossing by this point, pulled into a parking lot and got out of the car; the driver was still insisting that she’d run over a dog.  Another passenger in the car got under the car and a few moments later said, “oh fuck”.  He stood up holding a bloody jean jacket.

I’ll never forget the look on the drivers face; she was horrified.  We called the police, my friend explained where and what had happened.  The officer on the other end of the line was making inquiries on the police radio as he was talking to my friend.  He finally let us know that the accident had already been reported, emergency crews were on the scene and that we’d not been the only car that had hit the pedestrian. 

The next morning the police explained to us that the pedestrian that we hit was a “coyote” transporting illegal aliens from Mexico.  He had been pulled over with a van full of illegal Mexicans.  He ran, jumped the fence alongside the highway and ran out into the traffic. 

A car clipped the pedestrian before he got to us, which is why he was trying to regain his balance.  We hit him and then according to police, a series of cars ran him over after us; he was dead.  The police said that they were not going to press charges against anybody because they knew he was running from police and dashed out onto the highway giving the vehicles no chance to miss him.

My friends’ car was damaged from this incident.  A few days later, she took it in for repairs.  Not but 2 hours later, the mechanic calls to let my friend know that he’s found 3 severed fingers wedged up under the car.  He was pretty freaked out and asked what we wanted to do with them; he had to be calmed down.  The police were called again to collect the remains. 

If you drive down the Interstate 5 south near the Tijuana border crossing, you’ll now see highway signs showing a family holding hands and sprinting.  This is to warn drivers of the dangers of people crossing this massive Interstate on foot.  There are also huge chain link fences on stretches of this roadway to prevent people running across the highway.

I wish the fence was there in the 80’s.

My Sister the Buddha

When my sister graduated from College (with honors), she made the decision to go to medical school.  We were all very excited for her although the thought of coming up with the money for her tuition was a bit daunting.

So off my sister went to learn how to wield the scalpel, analyze the anus and operate the machines that go “beep”.  Her medical school of choice for the first 2 years was in the sunny Caribbean, 365 days of sun and nakedness.  The 2^nd half of her schooling was in the land of people with bad teeth – The United Kingdom.

What we didn’t realize was that as my sister was studying medicine, she was also studying Buddhism, big time.  We knew she was dabbling in the Buddha Buddha stuff but we had no idea about what was about to happen.

When her 4^th year of medical school was finished and it came time for the graduation ceremonies, we all flew to New York City to watch my sister receive her diploma at Radio City Music Hall.  The pride we all had for my sister was huge.  We set a dinner at a very fancy restaurant a few hours before the graduation ceremony so that we all could celebrate as a family.  Everybody came with gifts and heartfelt speeches for my sister.  We were going to properly send her off into the world of medicine.

Everybody but my sister arrived at the restaurant, she was late as usual.  The excitement was palatable.  People were speculating on what area of medicine my sister would practice.  I of course placed my money on Proctology, since there were so many assholes in our family, she’d make millions.  Then my sister arrived.

She was as radiant and beautiful as always but there was something that nobody expected.  My sister had a shaved head and was wearing all orange, dark orange.  My first thought was that she picked up some new strange fashion in the UK; they’re weird like that.  I could tell that everybody was trying to figure out why this young lady with beautiful long blond hair had shaved it off and why the hell she was dressed so badly.   

My sister greeted everybody, sat down and told us she had something important to tell us.  I figured that she was going to finally admit that she was going to be a Proctologist, boy was I wrong.  She proceeded to say in a very calm voice that she’d made a life changing decision.  My sister, my dear sister, my dear misguided sister, after 4 years of medical school and hundreds of thousands of dollars in tuition had become an ordained Buddhist Nun and was going to spend the rest of her life following the Buddhist teachings.

Believe it or not, I sat there thinking, “cool, a Buddhist Nun Doctor – Proctologist”!  But again, boy was I wrong.  My sister went on to inform us that she’d accept her medical degree diploma tonight at Radio City Music Hall but she really wanted to make a difference to humanity so she was not going to practice medicine, she was going to travel from temple to temple refurbishing Buddhist deity statues while spreading the word of the big jolly guy – Buddha himself.

This is one of those times that I wish was being recorded, it would have gone viral 10x over on YouTube.  My mothers’ head dropped, I spit Coca-Cola out my nose and my sisters’ father turned so red, I thought he would have a stroke right there at the table.

I don’t think I need to explain more about the night, you can just imagine.  But in all fairness to my sister, years later, she is still traveling all around the world with the Buddha Buddha’s doing whatever Buddha’s do and she’s as happy as a Buddha can be.

The End

"Wog Day" Initation Onboard the Aircraft Carrier USS Ranger CV-61 1989

"Wog Day" Starts at 1:21

The two-day event (evening and day) is a ritual of reversal in which the older and experienced enlisted crew essentially takes over the ship from the officers. Physical assaults in keeping with the spirit of the initiation are tolerated, and even the inexperienced crew is given the opportunity to take over. The transition flows from established order to the controlled "chaos" of the Pollywog Revolt, the beginnings of re-order in the initiation rite as the fewer but experienced enlisted crew converts the Wogs through physical tests, then back to, and thereby affirming, the pre-established order of officers and enlisted. Like the old physically and emotionally intensive boot camp, the "Crossing the Line" ritual deconstructs and then reconstructs the initiates' experience from newbie outsider into the experienced military fraternity.

The eve of the equatorial crossing is called Wog Day and, as with many other night-before rituals, is a mild type of reversal of the day to come. Wogs—all of the uninitiated—are allowed to capture and interrogate any shellbacks they can find (e.g., tying them up, cracking eggs or pouring aftershave lotion on their heads).[citation needed] This is not a thing that a true shellback will ever have happen to them.[opinion] The wogs are made very aware of the fact that it will be much harder on them if they do anything like this.

Polish line-crossing ceremony (Chrzest równikowy)
After crossing the line, Pollywogs receive subpoenas to appear before King Neptune and his court (usually including his first assistant Davy Jones and her Highness Amphitrite and often various dignitaries, who are all represented by the highest ranking seamen), who officiate at the ceremony, which is often preceded by a beauty contest of men dressing up as women, each department of the ship being required to introduce one contestant in swimsuit drag. Afterwards, some wogs may be "interrogated" by King Neptune and his entourage, and the use of "truth serum" (hot sauce + after shave) and whole uncooked eggs put in the mouth. During the ceremony, the Pollywogs undergo a number of increasingly embarrassing ordeals (wearing clothing inside out and backwards; crawling on hands and knees on nonskid-coated decks; being swatted with short lengths of firehose; being locked in stocks and pillories and pelted with mushy fruit; being locked in a water coffin of salt-water and bright green sea dye (fluorescent sodium salt); crawling through chutes or large tubs of rotting garbage; kissing the Royal Baby's belly coated with axle grease, hair chopping, etc.), largely for the entertainment of the Shellbacks.

Once the ceremony is complete, a Pollywog receives a certificate declaring his new status. Another rare status is the Golden Shellback, a person who has crossed the Equator at the 180th meridian (International Date Line). The rarest Shellback status is that of the Emerald Shellback (USA), or Royal Diamond Shellback (Commonwealth), which is received after crossing the Equator at the Prime Meridian.[When a ship must cross the Equator reasonably close to one of these Meridians, the ship's captain will typically plot a course across the Golden X so that the ship's crew can be initiated as Golden or Emerald/Royal Diamond Shellbacks.

Swimming With Sharks

My paternal great grandfather – William Anton Rank was Conrad Hilton’s partner in the very early days of Hilton Hotels.  He was also a distant relative.  After Conrad and my great grandfather went their separate ways, my great grandfather started a chain of hotels in California and El Paso, Texas.  My grandfather – Bill Rank took over the family business after his father William died but unfortunately was mugged and killed in El Paso as he was delivering payroll for the hotel; the killers were never caught.

My grandfather had been a very wealthy man and as a result of his murder, my father inherited millions of dollars in the mid 60’s for his 18^th birthday.  My father took his millions and moved to Los Angeles where he got into the television and music business, just after I was born.  Unfortunately, he’d not have much to do with me again until I was 13.  My father enjoyed some success, producing a few TV shows and one record that hit the top 20.  My father too was killed while he was still young in a hot air balloon accident; I was 14.

In my early 20’s, I felt like I needed to learn more about my father and his life since I didn’t have much time with him, so I began looking up his old friends and partners.  One of my fathers’ partners was a very successful television producer in Los Angeles by the name of Sam Riddle.  Sam had produced shows such as Almost Anything Goes and Star Search, he was also featured in the Elvis Presley movie “Clam Bake”.  At the time I met Sam, he was the Executive Producer of Star Search, he was on top of the world.  I arranged a dinner with Sam in Beverly Hills and little did I know just how much my life would change that night.

Sam took me to what was the fanciest restaurant I’d ever been to in my life.  It was beautiful, there were celebrities, the food was amazing and very, very expensive.  I was young, Sam was successful and famous and right there and then I made a decision, I was going to become a Hollywood Producer like Sam Riddle.

I didn’t see Sam again for several years but I had my plan in place and I’m here to tell you that I executed it perfectly.  I called Sam constantly asking him for a job, I was relentless.  I had no experience, no idea what to expect but I was going to get a job with Sam Riddle if it killed me.  Finally, after over 2 years of pestering him, Sam Riddle called me.  He was preparing to produce a new kids’ show in Orlando, Florida called “Out of the Blue”.  Sam told me that if I could find my own way to Orlando, find my own place to stay, work for free and do everything he told me to, that I could have a job.

At the time Sam called me offering me the non-paying job, I lived in Albuquerque, New Mexico.  In record time, I had my pickup truck loaded with my stuff and was on my way to Orlando, Florida!

My stay in Orlando was absolutely amazing.  My plan was to work my fingers to the bone so that Sam Riddle would offer me a permanent "paying" job and that’s just what happened.  I’d go to work before the sun came up and return home late at night, seven days a week.  Within a short period of time, I went from being the guy who got coffee and shuttled laundry to the dry cleaner to an Associate Producer on “Out of the Blue” and working on shows all over the United States.  This was easily one of the happiest times of my life.  I felt pride and confidence like I’d never experienced before.

One of my most memorable experiences producing TV was a show that I did at the Apollo in Harlem.  This was way before Bill and Hillary Clinton set up their offices in Harlem, it was still very rough and not many white folk spent time there.  We were producing a show called “The Lou Rawls Parade of Stars”.  This was a telethon benefitting the United Negro College Fund.  We had dozens of great acts and celebrities; Will Smith, Shaggy, Naughty By Nature, Boyz to Men and President Clinton – to name a few.

When I flew into LaGuardia Airport for the show, it was my first time in New York City.  My only knowledge of NYC was from the movies “The Warriors and Fort Apache the Bronx”.  In my mind, it was a rough city with dangerous gangs, burnt out cars on the side of the roads and abandoned buildings; I was a little nervous. 

As I got off the plane and headed out of the terminal to my limousine, I was welcomed to New York with a surreal fistfight between two cab drivers.  I just stood there looking at these two men kick the shit out of each other right in front of me and thinking to myself, what the hell have I gotten myself into?

The night of the live show came, it was a Friday night and we were about 20 minutes out from going live.  It was a sold out show and it was time for me to let our host know that we needed him on stage.  When I walked into his dressing room, I was greeted with a plume of marijuana smoke.  Our host, who I’ll leave unnamed, was stoned out of his gourd and to make matters worse, he looked it. Our host had 2 women in his dressing room who were both equally as stoned.  When he asked the girls to give him some Visine, they both started to giggle; they didn’t have any.  This really pissed off our host who became very angry and started arguing with the girls. 

I didn’t have time for this nonsense so I said I’d go get some.  Our host told me to go out the front door of the Apollo, take a right and go down two blocks to the drug store.  I was running out of time and tunnel visioned, I needed to get to the drug store and back ASAP.  I was oblivious to my surroundings as I ran down the street.  I entered the drug store, found the Visine and stepped up to the counter.  This is when I had a serious moment of clarity.  There was a large black woman behind the counter.  She was staring right at me shaking her head.  She said “Uhh, uhh, uhh, Crazy White Boy”.  I stood there staring at her, realizing something was very wrong.  As I stepped out the front door of the drug store, it all became crystal clear to me.  I was the only white guy on one of the largest boulevards in Harlem on a Friday night; absolutely everybody was staring at me.

I quickly walked back to the Apollo, very aware of the attention I was drawing; it was frightening.  As I walked up to the Apollo, there were about 5 NYPD officers standing there.  Ironically enough, we’d hired them as security for our production.  One of the officers walked up to me and said in a thick NYC accent “what the fuck do you think you’re doing?!”.  He then told me to get my ass inside and never do something so stupid again.  This became quite the joke for everybody in the production company and I’ll admit, it scared the shit out of me.

During part of the time I was producing TV, my fiancée at the time lived in Albuquerque where she was attending the University of New Mexico.  I’d commute from Los Angeles to Albuquerque as often as possible to be with her.  During one trip to Albuquerque, I had a bad case of the flu.  I was stuck in bed, no chance of getting out.  We were very tight on money so we didn’t have cable TV.  I had a choice of watching a PBS sewing show, 2 soap operas or the game show Family Feud with Richard Dawson.  So there I lay, wheezing and shivering while watching Family Feud; I wasn’t a happy camper.  Halfway through the show, I found myself horribly bored and wishing for something better to watch.  I began to imagine how much more exciting Family Feud would be if Richard Dawson was actually playing with his own money!  Then it hit me; this was a great idea for a TV game show.  I grabbed a pen and pad and went to work outlining my show.  By the time the weekend was done, I had the entire format of the show in place and ready to go, all I needed was a host and a sidekick.

My timing couldn’t have been better to have come up with a TV game show like this as the Writers Guild of America was talking about a strike so the networks were looking for shows that wouldn’t rely on the union writers.  Because of this Writers Guild strike, the mid 90’s was the origination of the “Reality TV” phenomenon.  When I returned to Los Angeles, I immediately got together with a former friend and legendary producer – Al Burton.  Al produced numerous famous shows like Charles in Charge, The Boob Tube, Silver Spoons, Diff’rent Strokes, The Jefferson’s, Square Pegs, The Facts of Life and One Day at a Time.  He was very connected and always willing to listen to new ideas.

I told Al that I had a great idea for a new TV game show.  I shared my treatment with Al.  I explained the concept was that the host of the show was given a per episode fee of $5,000.00.  He would then take on 3 contestants each show.  Whatever money the contestants won came directly out of the hosts $5,000.00.  The meant that the host could conceivably go home after an episode with no money!  Al was very excited about my idea; he cleared his schedule and began reaching out to the networks. 

We first pitched the show to Fox Television.  This was very interesting as Al and I were sitting in one of the executives’ offices at Fox preparing for the pitch when 3 well dressed people from the legal department came into the room with recorders and legal pads.  They sat there and scribbled every word we said; it was unnerving.  I finally asked them what they were doing, they told me that Fox had had a bad time with people accusing them of stealing ideas so they were documenting everything at pitch meetings.  Looking back, I should have realized that I too needed to do the same.

My show eventually landed with Buena Vista (Disney).  Our first meeting at Buena Vista was very exciting; their facilities are absolutely amazing.  We met with a man by the name of Andrew Golder.  I’ll never forget Al Burton proudly introducing me to Andrew as “The Golden Boy”.  Andrew loved my idea and wanted to move forward with the show.  I literally had to pinch myself and Al and I left Andrew’s office.  I’d come up with an idea that was going to actually be on television!

Now it was time to really get to work.  I felt that my show needed to have a “Monty Python” feel and suggested we approach John Cleese about being the host and possibly contributing writer.  Al told me that John would never consider this type of show; he was untouchable for a project like this.  I then suggested David Lee Roth of Van Halen, he had been the first person I’d thought of as a host when I came up with the idea for the show.  I knew that he was very smart and witty.  I’d hoped that we could pare him with Pamela Anderson; she’d make a perfect sidekick.  I had been communicating with David’s’ manager at that time about another project.  Al loved the idea of David Lee Roth and suggested we approach him immediately. 

David Lee Roth was offered the position and to my surprise he accepted.  I couldn’t have been more excited as I’m a huge Van Halen fan and the thought of working with Diamond Dave was amazing.  Unfortunately, a few weeks after Dave accepted, he reunited with Van Halen and walked from my show.  I was really let down.  As fate would have it though, his reunion with Van Halen only lasted a couple weeks; he shouldn’t have turned me down. 

Our next potential host was Bobcat Goldthwait.  I wasn’t very excited about this, in my opinion he wasn’t a good fit for my show.  Luckily, he was offered another show and passed on my project. 

Even though I was happy I lost Bobcat, I was also very frustrated; I was back to square one.  Al and I sat down at his house to brainstorm about who could be our host.  We went through hundreds of headshots of known actors, nobody was a fit or they were untouchable.  Then Al Burton looked at me with a big smile and said, “I have an idea”.  He went onto tell me about an old friend of his who was brilliant and had been in a few movies.  The most famous movie he was in was “Ferris Buellers Day Off” and the character he played was the teacher who in a monotone voice said “Anybody, Anybody?”, it was Ben Stein.

We contacted Ben who at the time was teaching at Pepperdine University in Malibu. We asked him to come to Buena Vista Studios to do a “run through”.  A run through is when you do a mock up of a show to see how it flows.  Buena Vista brought in 3 mock contestants to compete with Ben, one of the contestants was a champion from the game show Jeopardy.  Ben didn’t know that this guy was Jeopardy champion; he thought they were just 3 regular people that Disney hired for this run through.  We proceeded to do the run through with Ben taking on the role of the host.  We had prepared a large quantity of questions from easy to very difficult.  Ben played the role perfectly and to our surprise, easily beat the Jeopardy champion; we had our host!

Al and I started fine-tuning the show with Ben Stein in mind.  At one of our meetings, we were trying to come up with a name.  I had found a photo of Ben Stein, cut out his head and pasted it onto a dollar bill.  I showed Al Burton the bill and said to him “Ben Stein’s Money”.  From that moment on the show was called “Win Ben Stein’s Money”.

We now needed to find the “sidekick” for the show, Ben was the perfect host but he was very “dry” so we needed somebody to counter Ben’s personality.  Somebody mentioned that they knew of a great comedian who might be a good fit.  This comedian was brought in, he was great and right away everybody knew we had a hit show; the comedian was Jimmy Kimmel.  Jimmy has since gone onto hosting Jimmy Kimmel Live.

As we were preparing for preproduction, we were also finalizing the contractual documents.  I was contractually supposed to be the “Creator, Developed For Television By and one of the Executive Producers”, I was ecstatic, in only a couple of years, I’d gone from being an assistant to an Executive Producer!  Being the Creator and Executive Producer on a television show is a big deal; it can mean huge money.    

One Friday night I’d gone out to dinner and decided to go by the office afterwards to get a little work done.  It was about 11:00 pm, I was the only person there.  When I arrived, there was a fax coming in, it was from Buena Vista.  It was the contract for Win Ben Stein’s Money!  I grabbed the contract and started reading, then I saw it, I was horrified.  Al Burton and another man by the name of Byron Glore Al’s partner had instructed Disney to remove my name as Executive Producer and Creator.  I don’t think I’m capable of expressing the betrayal I felt at that moment. 

The next business morning, I confronted both Al Burton and Bryon Glore.  They told me that Buena Vista wouldn’t allow anymore Executive Producers nor would they allow my Created By credit.  I knew this was absolute bullshit and I called them on it.  I pointed out that I’d created the show and I should be the last person who should lose a credit.  Shortly after this confrontation, I was told that they were closing the company so I’d need to leave.  My head was spinning, my moral was crushed and I had no idea what to do.

Looking back, I could kick myself.  I was so young and naive, couldn’t imaging somebody would do something so bad to me.  A few days before I found out what Al and Byron were up to, I was sent an email from one of Al’s long time assistants.  This assistant warned me to look out for Al and protect myself.  I ignored his warning, I thought Al’s assistant was just pissed off at Al and jealous of me, trying to make trouble.  

I moved back to Albuquerque as quickly as I could. I couldn’t bear to be in Los Angeles another moment.  I’d realized that I’d been swimming with sharks and had just been chewed up and spit out.  Just after I got home, I consulted an attorney who by chance was the father of the actor and friend Neil Patrick Harris.  Neil’s father told me that I had a good case and should go after these people. 

By this time, I’d married my first wife, we were dirt poor and frightened to death about our future.  We knew we should sue the rats that had stolen my show from me but we had no idea how the hell we were going to afford an attorney.  Mr. Harris said he could help us but since he was based in Albuquerque, he highly recommended that we find an attorney in Los Angeles.  I was having no luck as all the attorneys I met with in Los Angeles wanted large retainers and charged incredible amounts of money per hour.  They didn’t want to take my case on contingency either as Win Ben Stein’s Money wasn’t going to air on a major network; it was going to air on a relatively new cable network called Comedy Central.  The money on Comedy Central wasn’t near what it would be on one of the major networks like NBC, CBS or ABC.  I was feeling completely defeated.

I was forced to negotiate with Byron Glore and Al Burton myself.  We wrangled over a settlement for a long time, into 1997 when the show first aired.  By this point I was completely worn down, I’d been stepped on and taken advantage of by two thugs.  Byron Glore had gone from blaming Buena Vista for my being stripped of my rightful credits and compensation to then claiming that I was “work for hire” for his company so my meager salary as an Associate Producer was actually compensation for the TV show.  Al Burton and Byron Glore’s partner Sam Riddle stepped up and acknowledged that I wasn’t work for hire and that I’d created the show but it was just too late; I had no more fight left in me, I walked away.

The day the show aired was crushing for me.  I knew I was to get a “Developed for Television By” credit so I had some friends over to see the show and watch my name on the credits.  When the credits rolled we were all glued to the screen.  The beginning credits were at a normal, viewable speed but when it came to mine, they flashed it across the screen so fast it was hard to read.  There was a long silence in the room, then one of my friends said “I’m so sorry Donnie”.  I sat there and just started crying.  I never imagined that anybody could be so evil and hurtful as Al Burton and Byron Glore.  I’d been baptized into the cutthroat world of business and I wanted nothing to do with it.

My show went on to win 5 Emmys.  At one of the Emmy awards shows, Al Burton and Byron Glore got up on stage to accept the award.  I watched in shock as these two men were taking credit for my idea and my show on national television.  A lot of people called me after this to ask me how this could have happened.  I wish they hadn’t, it just put me into a deeper depression.

The show lasted for many years, which didn’t help me to heal much as I constantly saw print and television advertisements for it.  I was relieved when the show was cancelled, I felt like I could move on.

Several times since the show was canceled, people who know me have run into Ben Stein and brought up my name.  Every time, Ben denies my involvement and reiterates that his old friend Al Burton created the show.  I doubt that Ben will ever acknowledge me because of his friendship with Al.

I just might have the last laugh though.  It’s now 2011, 14 years later and I’ve come up with an idea for a new show and it’s really creating a buzz in Hollywood.  I’ll soon go to meet with the networks to pitch the idea and possibly have a new show on a major network where I’m the Creator and Executive Producer!  And if that’s not enough, Sam Riddle, my mentor and only person who stood up for me through the whole Win Ben Stein’s Money fiasco will be my partner is this project.  Can you say Karma?

More on my father’s death can be found at: http://donniebrainard.blogspot.com/2010/05/el-global-grande-my-fathers-last-flight.html

My Grandfather & Great Grandfather at Their El Paso Hotel - 1950's

My Father - 1960's

Me and Sam Riddle at a Wrap Party - 1995 

Me with Shaq After a Lou Rawls Shoot

Al Burton With Cast Members

Here is a clip from Win Ben Stein's Money

60 Minutes Story About What My Daughter Does Daily

My beautiful wife Vikki does what this 2004 CBS 60 Minutes Special talks about; Conductive Education.  Vikki has traveled all over the world helping children with Cerebral Palsy.